“Four Miserable Miscreants”

“Maybe I should just kill myself” I laid restfully to one side of the chest press machine, almost unconscious— I had tried to work away the pain and sorrow, but it was no use; I had failed the test of time, of course, leaving too late after scurryingvfir the case managers to sign off a metro pass— to ensure that I would never be trapped in the city or ticketed again, which I had been respectively numerous times, and the latter twice—I now iwed the city $209 in fines for hopping the subway and getting caught, and not BBC a penny to my name, besides $5, which I could decide to spend on, or at all. It was really too little for anything, except more ritual chime candles, and though the spell and shadow work I had been doing was paying off thigh ever slowly in the strange and twisted ways I had both expected and not—my actual need and ask had not yet been granted; I needed large amounts of money, in lump sums—and though I was willing to work for it, I wasn't much interested or invested I working anywhere Jr Equinox, which would cover the heft monthly fee and allow me to pull ahead. But the good was the hood—the bus was delayed, and the road blocked by an ambulance—then the train delayed after that, and so on, and I had arrived 37 minute late to my interview, and in the tattered and worn clothes I had, the only clothes I had, and embarrassingly enough the obligatory hat that covered my raggedy dreaded braids, which I could neither afford to remove or comb out at all—I looked a mess and for the most part was— I had no interview apparel , really, and my clothes smelled of mold, wrinkled from over wear. I was angry with the world, but mostly myself, as I had done all that I could to depart in a timely matter, but had been once again beaten and batters by the curse—and as my evil ex husband had arrived again in my dreams the night before, I had awoken off and sickly— I hated him, and he continued to ruin my life even as far as I tried to keep him from my mind. It did seem a curse, satanic black magic—anything to keep me homeless, penniless, and away from my son—I tried to work away the tears, but even after two and a half hours, equal to two and a half mixtapes, which I couldn't afford to put anywhere at all, as I had even lost my podcast series and a read to my audience, a growing cult following with an apparent loyal fan base, just the day before having discovered someone —not myself— had taken the time to make one of the shows an IMDB page— this was appallingly surprising; I had not a dollars worth to my name, and was yet somehow takeout, and I hated myself even more for just being, more and more each day. Equinox had been my only hope—how else was I to afford my debt? I smelled like mold and felt like crying, and having fury otter my sunglasses used the brim if my disgusting and tattered hat to hide the Shane in my face, and my teary, bloodshot eyes. I still needed to cry— It would have be in the steamroom, I decided, cerore I retreated back queens, rather than heading to sports club, and even though I had logged my laptop all the way into Manhattan, I was disgusted with myself, embarrassed and ashamed; it did seem a curse that would end my life indeed. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -U